Tim Atkin

Twice a year, I help to organise a wine dinner for a group of friends. For the most recent one, in Paris, my job was to bring the sweet wines and a selection of Grenaches. In preparation, I looked at what I have in bond and had a selection delivered to my house. Coravin in hand, I set to work. A three-vintage selection of Domaine Huet Vouvray Moelleux sorted the stickies in minutes. The reds were trickier.

Twenty-five years ago, when Michel Rolland was in his pomp, I was lucky enough to have dinner with him at the Cinnamon Club in London. I arrived early and was sitting alone at the table ordering my thoughts. Two Portuguese winemakers saw me and asked if I ‘d like to join them. “I’m wating for Michel Rolland,” I told them. If I’d said I was dining with Cristiano Ronaldo, they couldn’t have been more impressed. “Would he taste our wines?” one enquired. The wines duly arrived; they were ordinary.

The drive from Tarija to the Cinti Valley challenges your imagination as well as your lungs. You leave a chaotic, sub-tropical city at 400 metres and begin the switchback climb to the altiplano. Roadside restaurants offer sopa poderosa, a carbohydrate and protein-packed stew, to fortify you for the journey. You might well need it, or a cup of coca tea, as the highest point on the three-hour trip is just short of 4,000 metres. From there, you descend towards the Cinti Valley at around 2,400 metres.